Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe
by Natmonkey
Summary: Also known as Randy Redcliffe, this is an epic tale of lust and lunacy that takes place in the deceptively peaceful town of Redcliffe. Began as a collaboration between Fluid Consciousness and Natmonkey, who were wrong to think it would be a good idea to post this as Monkey Shines.
1. Teagan's Problem

_Hello, dear reader. Let me explain a few things about this story to you. In 2010, **Fluid Consciousness** came up with the general idea for this fic. I ran with it and came up with the very first chapter. Then she wrote the second, and I wrote the third, while we collaborated on the fourth. She figured we should make a joint account and post the story there, not mentioning who we were. It didn't get a lot of response, which this medley of madness definitely deserves. Somewhere along the line, **Fluid Consciousness **disappeared - you'll know this if you've been following her for a while. We reconnected a few years later, but our collaboration will never take off. So, I'll be continuing on my own and crediting her for the chapters she's written. If ever you do return to the land of the living again, **FC**, let me know if you want this deleted or not. _

_That being said, welcome to the very first episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_ (or _Randy Redcliffe_, if you prefer), where poor Bann Teagan has a problem._

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**Teagan's Problem**

Sweat beads on Bann Teagan's forehead while he dresses for his daily walk around Redcliffe. He is too late for it already. Anxiously he ties the waistband of the tan trench coat that showcases his trim form so perfectly. Not that that's the reason he is wearing the thing. On his head the green hunting cap with the pheasant's tail feather and he is good to go. With resolute steps Teagan strides out of Castle Redcliffe; he doesn't even notice Lady Isolde, whose languished eyes follow him until she can see him no more.

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Kaitlyn screams in surprise when an unknown man unexpectedly jumps before her, the lapels of his coat parted conspicuously. The cap he is wearing fully conceals his identity. Even worse, it's not the cap that draws her attention. Oh, the horror: the man is wearing nothing underneath his coat! A fearsomely large, twitching cock is practically winking at her. Oddly enough, the anonymous assailant appears to be reciting poetry: "There once was a man from Nantucket, who had a cock so long he could suck it..." The poor girl shrieks; such foul words, and the mental image! Dear Maker, _no_! Undauntedly, he carries on: "So he said with a grin, as he wiped off his chin: 'If my ear were a cunt, I would fuck it!'" Overtaken by shock, horror and disgust, Kaitlyn swoons.

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Teagan neatly closes his coat again and looks down on his victim with a slight pang of regret. He really doesn't enjoy scaring the poor villagers of Redcliffe, but he has no choice. If he doesn't expose himself to several people daily, he breaks out in hives, starts sweating and shivering... It's not pretty. Not at all. In fact, he can already feel a tremor setting into his hands. So he spies around for someone else to flash.

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Slowly Kaitlyn comes to, and to her great relief, finds herself alone. "I wonder where this Nantucket is?" she absently wonders aloud. The young woman rises to her feet, dusting off her skirt. With a shrug she picks up the bucket she dropped; that water isn't going to collect itself. Some poor soul who apparently feels the urge to show a random stranger his private parts shouldn't shock her so; perhaps one day she will end up marrying such a confused individual without her even knowing.

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Having left a trail of fainting women (not all from shock) and intimidated men in his wake, our troubled hero wanders into the inn. His arsenal of dirty limericks is almost depleted. Teagan makes a mental note to memorize some more, or perhaps even compose a few himself. He is quite the accomplished poet. The inn is empty, save for Lloyd, the bartender. Berwick is so inconspicuous, the Bann doesn't even notice him. Coat open, Teagan jumps before the counter and declaims: "There was a young man named Lanny, the size of whose prick was uncanny..."

Lloyd doesn't even flinch. "Is there anything I can get you, ser?" The tone of his voice suggests he is having a perfectly normal conversation with a perfectly normal individual.

For a moment, the compulsive nobleman is taken aback. This isn't the reaction the people he shows his bits to usually exhibit. "H-his wife, the poor dear..." he continues hesitantly.

"No, nothing?" Most unexpectedly, Lloyd reaches over the counter and takes a firm, but comfortable hold of the other man's balls. The expression on the portly bartender's face stays perfectly blank as he rolls the tender globes between his fingers. Nothing betrays any emotion.

The next line of his limerick comes out in a moan: "Took it in her ear..." This has never happened before. Teagan has had women scream and faint on him, men shout and swear, but nobody has ever ventured to touch him. And Lloyd's fingers seem to know exactly what they're doing. Who'd have thought it?

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From his dark and quiet place in the corner, Berwick watches the scene in mounting arousal. His hand automatically glides down to where his prick is straining against the front of his pants. Nothing turns the elf on more than hot boy-on-boy action. Granted, Lloyd isn't exactly the sexiest of men, but the moans the stranger in the snazzy hat utters make him harder than Andraste's birthstone. Since there is nobody else around, Berwick reaches in and reveals his aching trouser snake. Eyes riveted to the two men close by, he eagerly begins flogging the Grand Cleric.

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Sweat beads on Teagan's brow, but this time it has nothing to do with anxiety. The way his balls are being massaged is so mind-numbingly good, he can hardly speak. Which poses a problem with his other compulsion: the reciting of poetry, or in this case, limericks. You didn't think he does this for fun, did you? Mind straining to remember the last line, the nobleman stammers: "A-and... it-it..." It what? Rhymes with Lanny and uncanny...

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Bella, who was in the back doing dishes and making sure she was away from Lloyd's groping hands, unsuspectingly walks into the common room and goggles at the sight before her. In the corner, an elf is busily galloping his maggot. Her boss is bent over de counter, one beefy hand occupied with the testicles of a well-formed man whose dashing headgear makes him completely unrecognizable. The waitress promptly passes out from sheer revolt.

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Strange. Bella knows she is awake and her eyes are open. Yet she can see nothing. She can hardly breathe either. A pleasurable sensation at her cunny elicits a low moan from her lips; that's when she notices someone is sitting on her face.

Berwick has his head between the redhead's thighs (yes, the carpet matches the drapes), his tongue swirling little circles around her clit. When he found her passed out, he couldn't believe his luck. His preference goes out to men, but there is nothing wrong with a bit of pussy now and then. And this is obviously some high quality stuff. With obvious relish he plunges his tongue deep into the wet recess of her pink flesh while wiggling his bum into the woman's face.

_Oh, why the fuck not? At least it's not Lloyd._ She knows this, because the sheer weight of her employer would have killed her by now. Bella firmly grabs the guy by the ass, simultaneously massaging his taint with lips and tongue. This action earns an approving moan from her partner. Now, she isn't too much into rimming per se, but she has found that giving someone what they want makes them shove off all the sooner. And besides, it's not like he's not doing anything for her. His exquisite licking isn't far away from making her come.

After quickly slickening her finger, Bella slides it up the elf's bum until she feels the bump of his prostate against the tip. She initiates a firm massage of the gland and sucks his cock into her mouth.

Berwick almost jumps for joy. Finally, a woman who knows what he likes!

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Teagan's fevered mind is struggling to remember that last line. He has to finish the limerick, _he has to_! Broken rhyme can only lead to disaster! But damn it if the barkeep doesn't know how to properly fondle a set of balls. Voice nothing but a hoarse whisper, the Bann stutters: "A-and it..." That is where he is stuck. He cannot for the life of him remember the last few words. The pressure in his gut is maddening, the muscles in his legs tightening with every step his orgasm comes closer. And then, at the exact moment that he comes, he remembers: "And it came out the hole in her fanny!" At least, that's what he meant to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a series of whimpering moans as he pumps out a large amount of semen, onto Lloyd's sleeve.

Still utterly stone-faced, the portly man licks the cum away and swallows audibly. "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

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Just as Bella and Berwick climax at exactly the same time, an enraged voice thunders: "_What the deuce is going on here_?" That's one ruined orgasm they're never going to get back.

"Eamon!" Teagan cries out in surprise, scrambling to close his coat. It's still obvious he's not wearing any trousers underneath though; the three or so inches of hairy leg visible between the hem of his coat and the tops of his white knee socks prove as much. Still, no cause for worry. It's the hat, you see. He turns to find his brother standing there, who should still be in a coma with Isolde wailing next to his bed.

For the first time, Lloyd displays some emotion with a tired sigh. "Tomas... What are you up to this time? How'd you manage to steal the Arl, hm?"

"Aww..." From behind the Arl of Redcliffe, a young, mischievous face peers out. "Damn it, Lloyd, you're always onto me! Well, the castle is deserted. Not a soul stirs there."

"What were you doing there in the first place, young man?" Teagan questions sternly, twisting his voice. Awesome hat or no, you can never be too sure.

Tomas shrugs. "I had my eye on the blacksmith's daughter. Couldn't find her either. So," he pats unconscious Eamon on the shoulder, "I decided to take this old bloke with me and have some fun!"

"But where is the Arlessa?" the Bann wonders, not at all finding it strange that some random villager is using his brother as a life-sized hand puppet. "Have you not seen her?"

Again the puppeteer shrugs. "I don't know, man." He chuckles, a conspiratorial grin on his lips. "It wouldn't surprise me if she were banging that young man who is tutoring her son!"

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_And there you have it, dear reader. Don't be afraid to share your opinion, whatever it may be. Tune in for the next episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_, where Lady Isolde has problems of her own._


	2. Isolde's Issues

_All hail our kink queen **Fluid Consciousness**, who has brilliantly crafted this episode - I only fished out a few typos. It just so happens to be her birthday today. __Our ratings are low, but never fear! We are not the kind of sad people who hold chapters hostage until an X amount of reviews has been posted._

_With that out of the way, welcome to the second episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_. Lady Isolde is deeply troubled, but finds a kind soul willing to help her.  
_

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**Isolde's Issues**

Meanwhile, back at Castle Redcliffe, the Arlessa is having some problems of her own. It's been weeks since Eamon fell into a coma, and she's just not sure how much more she can take. She spends each night by his bed, praying fervently to blessed Andraste. When she ventures into their master bedroom and finds Eamon missing, she sees it as a sign from the Maker: Eamon is gone, and it's time for her to get laid (how she makes this connection is beyond any rational reason; she can only attribute it to the haze of lust that has been hanging about her for what seems like eons). Unfortunately, given the recent attacks at Redcliffe, there is no one around to sate her burning desire… Save for the mage that had poisoned her husband. Isolde rushes to the dungeons, eager to use the new toy that she picked up in the Denerim Market District.

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Jowan sits in his cell, his hands covering his face. He can't believe his shitty luck. First the Circle discovers his dabbling in blood magic, and then he's caught poisoning Arl Eamon. Loghain had assured him that he would be rewarded for serving Ferelden, though it seems that the teyrn has abandoned poor Jowan. He lets loose a gusty sigh and leans back against the stone wall. The cold rocks send a chill down his spine. He's not sure why the Arlessa insists upon such strange prison garb, but he's not exactly in a position to complain. He glances down at the only scrap of clothing that he's wearing. He's reasonably sure that the garment is meant to be smallclothes, though these particular smallclothes are made of leather, and the piece of material meant to cover his rear is instead a string that's wedged straight up his arse.

As he continues to contemplate his wretched situation, he hears the click-clack of footsteps tapping down the dungeon stairs. His head jerks toward the sound, and he leaps up, his long delicate fingers gripping the iron bars that cage him. "Hello? Who's there?" he calls out. His breath catches in his throat as the Arlessa steps out of the shadows.

"You have much to answer for, Jowan," she whispers menacingly.

Jowan's eyes widen at her veiled threat. The woman is wearing a white silk negligee and a lace wrap. He might find her beautiful if it weren't for her nasally voice and the fact that she's a complete bitch. His gaze drops to her pelvic region. Much to his surprise, the silk seems to be tenting. It's almost as though the Arlessa has an erection. "M-my lady… what are you doing here?"

"You poisoned my husband," Lady Isolde hisses. "It's your fault I have not been fucked in weeks! I intend to rectify this situation." Her eyes narrow as she strokes the silk surrounding her 'erection'.

Jowan swallows audibly, his hands held up in an effort to ward her off. "Now let's think about this rationally, Lady Isolde. How would your husband feel if you had relations with the man that poisoned him?" His heart rate increases when Lady Isolde steps forward and unlocks his cell.

"I will simply tell him that you took advantage of me while I was torturing you. Who do you think he'll believe, his loving wife, or some pretty boy blood mage?" Her tongue darts out of her mouth and she licks her lips hungrily, her heated stare taking in Jowan's lean form and the lovely smallclothes she'd issued him. "Bend over," she commands.

"W-what? No!" he sputters. He watches in abject horror as Lady Isolde lifts the negligee over her shoulders and tosses it to the ground. Attached around her waist is a makeshift cock, and it's quite possibly the biggest dong Jowan has ever seen. "You can't possibly mean to… to put that thing in my…" It's not like Jowan is a stranger to penis. The woman of his dreams, Lily, was gifted in such areas. He never knew he had such a love for all things phallic until he met his lady love. His love that had a cock that rivalled his own. His mind wanders to the nights he and Lily spent together, he on his knees between her legs, her thick member pulsing between his lips… He grows hard as a rock just thinking about it.

He thought they'd be together forever… especially when she'd taken his virginity. Only, it was all a lie. She'd been doing this to all the apprentices. Oh, she'd pretended that it was his dabbling in blood magic that sent her away, but he knew it was because she'd grown tired of him, and that she longed for an ass tighter than his own.

"Snap out of it!" Lady Isolde screeches. "Do as I say, and bend over."

Something happens to Jowan at that precise moment. He no longer wishes to play the victim. He will be his own man. As his first act as a man of merit, he casts a Mind Blast spell on Isolde, and ducks by her, set in his pursuit of freedom. He climbs the dungeon stairs and prays to the Maker that no one will question his attire.

"JOWAAAAAAAN!" Lady Isolde shrieks from the top of her lungs. "You will not get away with this!" The Arlessa slumps to the floor, her strap on digging mockingly into her abdomen. She'd come so close to taking a man this evening, and yet the fates always seemed to be working against her. It had been a long time since Isolde had shed a real tear. Certainly she'd shed her fair share in order to obtain what she wanted, to curry favour and sway people to her side. But on this eve, her tears are genuine. She is so fucking _horny_, and there is no one around to fill her up with a generous helping of cock.

Her long, delicate fingers travel beneath the waistband of her smallclothes. With a deft circling of her middle finger, Isolde locates the nub of pleasure that has brought her such happiness in the past lonely nights. She gently flicks the hood of her clitoris and begins to chant.

_"__All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,_

_From the lowest slaves_

_To the highest kings._

_Those who bring harm_

_Without provocation to the least of His children_

_Are hated and accursed by the Maker."_

Sweat beads on Isolde's upper lip as she continues to circle her love bud with increased fervour. Her thumb replaces her middle finger, allowing her index finger to dip into her wet slit.

_"Those who bear false witness_

_And work to deceive others, know this:_

_There is b-b-but one Truth._

_All things are known to our M-Maker_

_And He shall judge their...their…LIES!"_

The orgasm rocks through the Arlessa with an intensity she's never experienced. She lies on the dungeon floor, feeling delightfully boneless. Her breath is expelled in ragged whispers. She almost doesn't hear the shuffling just to the right of her.

"Good evening, my dear lady," whispers a voice hidden in the shadows.

The Arlessa stifles a scream. "Halt! Who goes there!" She slowly reaches for the dagger strapped to her thigh.

"I am the spirit of Valour, my lady, and I heard your prayers. I was sent to aid you in your plight," the spirit responds. Lady Isolde still hasn't gotten a good look at her visitor.

"I-I am not sure I understand what plight you are referring to," she replies shakily, her dagger still in hand.

"Why, your need for deep dicking, of course."

"Pardon me?!" Isolde says incredulously.

The spirit steps out of the shadows. He is positively hideous; his flesh hangs from him in rotten chunks, his skin is as sallow as the harvest moon. Fangs protrude from bloodless lips and it takes all of Isolde's courage not to run away screaming. "I have come as an answer to your prayers, my lady. Many think the desire demons are the ones who possess the ability to bring mind blowing pleasure, but that simply isn't the case. It is Fade spirits such as I that bring their partners to earth shattering climax. And I guarantee you, Isolde, when I'm through with you, you won't be able to sit properly for a week."

Despite the creature's hideous features, Isolde can't help but note that her smallclothes are completely damp. "You are one of the monsters terrorizing the city, are you not?" she asks.

"This body is wreaking havoc on your fair city, but I assure you, the spirit within wishes nothing more than to fuck you sideways. Now, enough needless talk, come – rut with Valour!" The spirit grabs hold of Isolde, wrenching the dagger from her wrist. In such close proximity, the Arlessa is able to smell the putrid stench of decay wafting from the corpse. _I don't know if I can go through with this-OH!_

Valour takes advantage of her momentary distraction and cups the Arlessa's sopping wet mound. He holds it possessively and whispers into her ear, "_mine._" A shiver runs down Isolde's spine as a grey, wart covered tongue darts out of Valour's lips to lick along the length of Isolde's cheek. She knows she should find the act deplorable, but something inside of her gives way.

"Fuck me, Valour! Show me what a spirit of the Fade can do to one such as I!" Without further ado, Valour grabs hold of the Arlessa and strips her of her breast-binder, revealing little boobies that don't really need one. But wearing something lacy and pretty is just something the vain Arlessa cannot resist.

Valour sniggers as he takes in the extra appendage protruding from Isolde's pelvic area. "Planning on using this on the poor unsuspecting blood mage, were you?" In one swift movement he rips the strap on from her waist. "I think I can put it to better use." Isolde lets out a startled shriek as Valour tears her smallclothes from her body. He reaches down with three decaying digits and inserts them into her liquid heat. "You _are_ wet for me, dear woman," he rasps into her ear.

Another shiver runs down the Arlessa's spine. "Y-yes… I need you inside me..."

"And so you shall," Valour thrusts into Isolde's drenched channel. He pistons into her relentlessly as he grabs hold of her legs and wraps them around his waist. Isolde cries out in equal parts ecstasy and disgust, her quim shuddering violently around his rotten member. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his neck, scratching down the length of his back. His flesh shreds beneath her nails, leaving long gouges in their wake. He continues to pommel into her at an alarming rate, when suddenly, she feels a slight prodding at the puckered hole of her arse.

"Valour!" she shrieks. Before she can protest, he's buried her strap on straight into her chocolate starfish. Never has she felt so full. He plunges the pseudo-cock in and out of her arsehole mercilessly. Her head lolls backward from the mixture of pain and pleasure. Her throat is raw from her constant moaning, and she is near to bursting. Suddenly, Valour's thrusts increase in tempo, and as the walls of her cunny contract, she milks the corpse for all he's worth (how a corpse is able to ejaculate is beyond her knowledge, but he does so, regardless). He lowers her to the floor, and she lies spent in his arms.

"That was…incredible. Andraste blessed me indeed when she sent you to me," Isolde murmurs.

"Andraste had nothing to do with it," Valour replies. "I saw a willing female looking for a tumble, and I took up the opportunity. I'm the spirit of Valour, not the spirit of Chastity." His life force begins to drain from him, pulling him back to the Fade.

"Is there nothing you can leave behind for me to remember you by?" Isolde beseeches, her torn garments held up to shield her nudity.

"Simply look inside yourself, and you will find me," Valour replies cryptically, and without another word, he fades into the abyss.

Isolde frowns, flopping down on the clothes that she and Valour had just made love on. "Look inside myself? What poppycock!" she grumbles. She turns onto her side and notices a slight discomfort. It seems to be coming from her nether regions. She reaches down with one hand and lets out a peel of laughter. There in the palm of her hand, is Valour's greyed and decayed cock.

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_And there you have it, dear reader. Tune in for the next episode of _Redcliffe_, where Ser Perth is in a bit of a pickle._


	3. Perth's Pickle

_Even though our ratings remain shitty, never fear! We have enough funds to continue our labour of love. The writers are enthusiastic, the cameraman pleased as punch, the actors are ecstatic and the catering team is going bonkers with joy. I wrote this chapter; __**FC**__ tossed an idea up in the air and I ran with it. I ran pretty damned far. _

_With that out of the way, welcome to the third episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_. This time Ser Perth has trouble getting into the castle, but is soon distracted by a pleasant treat._

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**Perth's Pickle**

Ser Perth has no way of getting into Castle Redcliffe and this troubles him. He was halfway to Denerim when he'd heard of the undead besieging the town he is in service of. Of course, he turned back right away, only to be greeted by closed gates and no other way of entering the castle.

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You might ask then, how Tomas managed to steal Arl Eamon. "We all played the game!" you clamour. "The castle is overrun by undead! How can a random guy get in and kidnap the Arl? _How_?" Well you see, under his guise of mediocrity Tomas is actually a ninja, and with his überleet-ninja-skills he scaled the castle wall to get inside and kept to the shadows (you know, even with hanging off the ceiling and shit), avoiding any shambling corpses. Which he could have easily defeated anyway. "But how did he get out again, accompanied by an unconscious old man?" you demand to know. Tomas is a very _strong_ ninja, and he tied the Arl to his back so he could climb out again without too much trouble. Satisfied now? Good. Stop interrupting me.

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Now, back to Ser Perth and his troubles. If he is perfectly honest with himself, the knight is in no hurry to be inside the castle and meet with its inhabitants. A visible shudder travels down his spine at the thought of the Arlessa, who always stares at him as if she wants to rip off his armour and devour him whole. Were he privy to the information as to the goings on in the dungeons right now, he would be in even less of a hurry to enter the castle. Vehemently, Perth shakes his head. That woman gives him the willies. Ugh, and that over the top Orlesian accent! Her horrible nasally voice! He doesn't even _like_ women; he likes...

The man's eyes absently follow the happily whistled tune his ears pick up and grow wide at the strange sight that greets him. His mouth goes dry, his knees go weak. Right in front of him is the resident dwarf, Dwyn, and one of his mercenaries. This isn't so strange, because Perth has seen them many times already; no, the strange thing is that Dwyn is absolutely, completely and utterly naked. In his hand he has a leash, to which his crony is attached. The large, burly human is covered in only a few leather straps that emphasize the wide expanse of his chest and moves on all fours, pretending to be a dog. He is panting like one, occasionally barking, even.

Perth isn't sure what to make of all this. Despite his confusion, his cock is straining against his codpiece, begging for attention. How he loves hairy, exhibitionist dwarves and random guys pretending to be dogs. How did they _know_? Is someone pulling his leg? He sure wishes someone were pulling his pudding. The poor, befuddled knight is quite eager to tickle his pickle. Or to fuck the dwarf up the arse while the mercenary licks his balls. That would be even better.

"Great weather, huh?" Dwyn remarks casually, as if he's fully clothed and his sexy pet isn't scratching himself behind the ear with his foot. "The sun is shining, there is no rain. Best day I've ever seen on the surface." A bright grin adorns the dwarf's face.

For almost a full minute, the troubled knight has absolutely no idea what to say. Is this shit for real? Is he dreaming? Is there something in the air that makes him delusional? Did Bella spike his mineral water? Finally he decides to just play along and see what happens. "Uh, y-yes, splendid weather indeed." Perth has a very hard time to keep himself from whimpering aloud when the leashed crony sidles up to him and begins rubbing his face against his thigh in greeting. "Good boy," the knight whispers huskily, scratching his fingers across the other man's closely cropped scalp. This earns him a happy bark and causes the dog to sit down, and get this, start licking his genitals. Perth's prick is now almost boring a hole into the metal of his codpiece, so engorged that the man is becoming lightheaded.

"So I say to the merchant: "No way, man! Twelve sovereigns is far too much for a sword of that quality!" Does he take me for a fool, or something?" Dwyn is still occupied with his small-talk, and quite passionately too. There is a frown on his face and everything, while he rants about the outrageous prices some merchant had the audacity of charging him. How dare he, et cetera!

Perth had stopped listening minutes ago. Various scenarios involving dwarves and human dogs bent over before him and moaning in utter delight tumble through his feverish brain. A trail of drool drips down his chin, sparkling in the sunlight. Suddenly the knight is alerted by a strange feeling and looks down. It turns out that the crony is happily licking his boot; his pink tongue is caressing Perth's ankle, his wide brown eyes innocently looking up at him. This proves to be too much for the poor man and his clothing: with a loud *_pling_* his codpiece flies clean off and hits the dog smack dab in the middle of the forehead. With a gasp, the knight bends down. "Poor puppy! Are you okay?"

The mercenary utters a sad whine, pawing at his injury like a poor little doggy. Not without reason, I might add. The metal codpiece was catapulted with quite a bit of force, and thus caused a bleeding lump. Oh dear. They don't make codpieces the way they used to, I tell you. I say, if that thing had been half the quality they were when I was still young... Ahem! Sorry.

Soothingly, Perth pets the distressed dog until he calms down. Whimpering in gratitude, the crony clasps his muscular arms around the knight's equally muscular leg and begins humping it like his life depends on it. Naturally, the confused knight almost faints, that's how hot he thinks a human dog humping his leg is. In all the commotion, neither he nor the dog have noticed how after the codpiece went flying away, his smallclothes slowly but surely succumbed to his now almost painfully stiff cock. And, maybe I hadn't mentioned this before, but holy crap, that thing is a more than average size.

Dwyn whistles appreciatively. "Well, this weapon is _definitely_ worth twelve sovereigns!" He sashays a bit closer to the tall human and asks with a saucy grin: "Would you mind if I inspect the goods a bit more closely?" Without waiting for an affirmative answer the dwarf promptly grabs a hold of the rampaging organ, giving it a firm squeeze.

Perth is ready to faint; this gets even worse when Dwyn takes his hard cock in his mouth. A yelp of surprise and pleasure sounds. The tickling of his moustache only adds to the sensation. During the blowjob that would put even a Nilfisk to shame (and you should know that nothing sucks like a Nilfisk), the knight thanks the sweet Maker, blessed Andraste, his lucky stars and anything else he can think of for this wonderful opportunity. But then the dog whimpers pitifully, and Perth opens the eyes he barely remembers closing. The first thing he sees is the most delightful little pink arsehole he has ever laid eyes on. The crony is on his knees, shamelessly offering himself to the man who was kind enough to pet him when he had a sad.

And just like that, Perth comes harder than he's done in all of his presumably thirty- or forty-something long life. An entire bucket of cum comes out of him; it erupts out of Dwyn's mouth and down his chin. His beard and chest hair are becoming matted and sticky with that tasty non-dairy treat. "By the Stone, dude, are you a man or a horse?" The dwarf sounds angered, impressed and intimidated, all at the same time. Try as he might, he can't wipe off the gallon of semen he was just bathed in.

All awkwardness abandoned, the knight grabs him by the hair and neighs like the stallion that he is. Dwyn quickly picks up on the unsubtle hint, sucking the limp cock dangling before his mouth back to its full blue-veined glory. As soon as it is as hard as a rock once more, the dwarf anoints it with the slippery cum he has all over his face. "Oh yeah, give that little hole a good stretch," he growls, pressing the tip against his crony's entrance.

Perth is fully through the mercenary's backdoor of love in no time. The tunnel is tight, but very giving. Without any mercy, the horny human ploughs the whimpering dog to within an inch of both their lives. "I hope you got your hiking boots on, puppy, because you and I are going on a wild trip to brown town!" Perth's normally so soothing and gentle voice is rough and raspy; puppy approves. In his leather pouch, his already rock-hard trouser trout grows to immense proportions. Another flimsy article of clothing bites the dust.

"Gee Sparky, that's the seventh leather pouch you've destroyed this month," Dwyn says, sadly shaking his head. "What am I to do with you?"

Just in time, "Sparky" swallows a hateful comment about larger pouches, and decides to moan dog-like instead. He has better things to do than bicker with his master. Perth smacks his partner hard on the bum. "Do you like this, doggy?" Harder and faster he fucks him, so hard his cock might snap off if he makes a wrong move. "Howl for me, little mutt!" Exactly like he has done every full moon, the crony howls hard enough to be heard all the way over in Denerim. "Good boy." The knight digs a tasty treat from his pocket and feeds it to his precious lapdog.

Sparky pants happily between pleasured whimpers. His special spot is being stimulated like nobody's business. Stars are swimming in his vision, great amounts of pre-cum are dripping from his one-eyed wonder worm. Soon, very soon, his family jewels will spurt their golden load.

Dwyn, who has been watching with interest for a while now, feels a little restless. He wants a piece of the action. A slice of the cake. Finally he clambers onto his mercenary's back, so that his well-packed dwarven sausage is practically in the tall human's face. "You want some of this, don't you?" he rasps, stroking along the length.

"Do I!" Perth immediately sucks the thing into his mouth, arching his back so that he can play Dwyn's flesh flute, fuck the dog and wank his willy too. Sparky's arse contracts so deliciously, that Perth blows his load and accidentally swallows the dwarf's cock, making him come as well. The throbbing of the knight's boner in his butt and the iron grip the man has on his doggy dong, shove Sparky over the edge too. A happy end is had by all. And just in time.

With a soft thud Tomas lands behind the intrepid trio. Dwyn looks at him incredulously. "Where by the Paragons' tools did _you_ come from?"

"I was on the windmill, scouting out the area." The ninja scoffs and folds his arms before his chest, his forehead pulled in a grim frown. "当たり前だろう." He smacks his forehead. "Oops, sorry, wrong language. So, I bet you boys enjoyed the sight of the mage sneaking by in his thong, huh?" Grinning suggestively, he adds: "If I weren't such a ladies' man, I would definitely tap that."

"What, where? I didn't see anything!" the three wanton man-sluts exclaim in perfect harmony.

Tomas raises his eyebrow. "How could you not have seen that? He walked right past you!" In disbelief he shakes his head. "Never mind. What I actually wanted to tell you, is that a group of outsiders is headed this way."

"Fuck!" the crony exclaims, his voice oddly high-pitched for such a manly fellow. "We should get out of here, boss!" Promptly he slings Dwyn onto his back. "I had fun, Ser Perth, we should do this again sometime!" he calls over his shoulder as he races away with the dwarf.

Face as red as Andraste's knickers during that time of the month, the knight tucks his goods neatly out of sight. The codpiece is at his feet, so the man is decent once more in no time. "You... you won't tell anyone of what you saw us do, will you?" he questions his companion nervously, shuffling his feet like a timid schoolgirl.

Tomas laughs heartily, clapping the other man on the pauldron. "Don't you worry, Ser Perth. What happens in Redcliffe, stays in Redcliffe!"

* * *

_Due to technical difficulties, the Monkey Brain Translation Team could not get their subtitles up on time. This is what it should have said underneath Tomas' Japanese line: "Duh."  
_

_And there you have it, dear reader. Tune in for the next episode of _Randy Redcliffe_, where a surprise awaits the poor apostate Jowan in the Chantry. _


	4. Jowan's Joust

_Yes, children, you have guessed it! Episode four of Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe is upon us again. Our ratings are still shite, but that won't stop us from our labour of love. Yours truly introduced the arrival of our intrepid adventurers – Her Majesty the Kink Queen __**Fluid Consciousness **__took care of the smut. _

_That being said, welcome to episode four, where Jowan finds refuge in the Redcliffe Chantry. And how._

* * *

**Jowan's Joust**

A party of familiar adventurers (cue the applause and whistling) is close to Redcliffe. Dog the dog's ears pick up and he whines curiously. His master, Grey Warden Alistair, tilts his head and listens intently. "Do you hear howling?"

"Gee, like, I dunno..." Frances Cousland twirls a lock of her greasy hair around her grimy finger. "Like, could be wolves around here or something..."

"Out of the question," Morrigan says. "If there were wolves around here, I would know. Besides that, the howling sounded... human."

Frances rolls her eyes. "Oh, like, please, Morrigan, as if humans can _really_ howl like that." She hates it when the swamp witch opens her mouth. Despite telling herself that is because Morrigan isn't very nice, deep inside Frances knows that she just envies the woman's beauty. She would like, be so totally happy if she could look like that!

"I once howled like that." Oghren chuckles his sleazy chuckle. "Branka was riding me like a bronto, her tits swinging in my face..."

"La la la!" Alistair claps his hands to his ears. "Can't hear you!" Neither does he hear the Dalish elf who is following the party.

"Wait for me, you bastards!" Theron Mahariel screams in rage. "That pimply bitch isn't even a Grey Warden! She's just some whore Duncan picked up by the side of the road!" Even after running for hours on end, the elf isn't close at all to being out of breath. "I didn't go through the Joining for this stupid shit! _Alistaaaair_!"

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Jowan is frozen to the bones, dressed in only the leather thong Isolde so desperately wanted to see him in. Yet he is too occupied with spying for people to notice. His eyes nearly roll from their sockets as he sees an almost fully armoured man fucking another man, who is on hands and knees and wearing almost the same as the unfortunate mage. On the back of the man on the receiving end, sits a dwarf. The armoured human is busily giving him head.

_Where by Andraste's shiny silk knickers did I end up now?_ Jowan shakes his head and quietly sneaks past the occupied trio. They are too busy to notice him, thankfully. On his way out of the castle, the apostate has mulled over where he wants to go. In his devious mind the plan has hatched to seek refuge in the Redcliffe Chantry, pretending to be a fugitive from Lothering. He arrived here in secret to tutor young Connor, so that might work. Frowning, he looks down on his mostly naked, goose flesh-covered skin. A sex slave fugitive, he had better make that. The whip marks on his back can only be helpful in that story. With a pang of regret he shakes off some fond memories of his well-endowed Lily and makes his way to the Chantry, hiding behind bushes and trees as he goes.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Mother Hannah sighs and sits in her old rocking chair. She has grown weary of having to deal with demands of all the whiny villagers. All she wants is to partake in her own needs. It has been so long since a willing young man has entered the Chantry, and she knows her nether regions are growing dry from disuse. She's all but given up hope when suddenly a gust of wind rouses her from her contemplations. A lean, handsome looking young man stumbles through the wooden double doors of the house of worship. But it isn't his good looks that hold the priestess's attention, it's the leather thong that the young man is sporting. He leans against the door, his breath coming out in ragged exhalations. It's quite obvious he's running from something - or someone.

"May I help you, child?" Mother Hannah asks.

The young man's head jerks up and assesses the threat that the old woman might pose. Seeing no outward danger, he slowly enters the Chantry, his hands covering his leather clad crotch. "I'm afraid that I'm being pursued by…" he swallows audibly at this point. "The Arlessa." He begins to fidget nervously, and is obviously cold from having to run through the village bare ass naked.

Mother Hannah stands from her rickety old chair and takes hold of an old woollen blanket, which she wraps around the young man's shoulders. "What is your name, child?"

Jowan hesitates a moment. Is it possible she has heard of him? He has no choice but to take a chance. "My name is Jowan."

Mother Hannah's eyes widen considerably. "The maleficar that was locked in the castle dungeon…"

Jowan falls to his knees, the corner of his wool blanket falling away to reveal a particularly attractive shoulder. "Please, your reverence, don't send me back there! I beg of you!"

Mother Hannah's eyes gleam wickedly as she licks her lips lasciviously. "I'm sure there's something we can work out…" Without further preamble she reaches up and unclasps the buttons of her Chantry robes. They fall away and pool at her feet on the floor. Jowan is rendered speechless. Beneath her robes is a leather bustier, which does wonders for her aging yet still delightfully full bosom. Now Jowan never thought himself a fan of mature women, but this minx standing before him is giving him a major case of wood. A belt hangs loosely from her hips, showcasing various riding crops. She selects the largest of the bunch and beckons Jowan toward her, her finger hooked in a come hither motion.

Never one to deny a lady of the Chantry, Jowan crawls toward her on all fours. As he reaches her feet, he feels a sharp sting on his rear end, and the distinct snap of the riding crop slapping against flesh. A small whimper escapes the apostate's lips.

"Do you seek forgiveness for your sins against the Maker and our prophet Andraste?" Mother Hannah demands in a husky voice.

"Yes… your reverence…"

_THWACK!_

"I think you mean, 'Yes Mistress Mercy'," Mother Hannah hisses.

Jowan lets loose another whimper. "Y-yes, Mistress Mercy."

"Much better. Now, I want you to lie on your back and show me just how much of a penitent sinner you are…"

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Leliana trudges through the near deserted streets of Redcliffe. Thus far she has seen little action. Apparently Alistair prefers taking Mahariel on their missions, leaving her behind to contemplate whether or not her vision was in fact one from the Maker. She decides that the best course of action is a little prayer and perhaps some guidance from the Chantry's revered mother. The Chantry itself isn't hard to find, though with her keen hearing, she's able to make out muffled voices coming from inside. She stealthily enters the Chantry, not wanting to disturb anyone in the midst of confession or prayer. She slides into one of the battered pews and is just about to bow her head in prayer, when she hears something that is most assuredly _not_ the sounds of someone asking for forgiveness… At least not in the standard sense.

Right before her eyes is a _very_ naked young man riding an elderly woman in a leather getup. Leliana inches closer to the couple, and is able to make out several of their words.

"Oh Mistress, your cunt is like finely aged cheese, and feels like velvet wrapped around my member… How could I have gone so long without knowing the wonders of sex with an older woman!" the young man is crying out.

"Shut your trap, slave, and thrust harder! I'm not made of porcelain! I haven't had a man in weeks, and I intend to milk you of every drop!" the old woman brings a riding crop down across the young man's back, and Leliana is able to distinguish several lash marks marring the young man's otherwise flawless skin.

Now Leliana isn't the type to find S&M enticing, but the display she is spying on brings her back to her bard days, watching nobles partake in their… baser desires. Soon she finds herself unable to simply watch the priestess cum dominatrix, for her own honey pot has grown slick with desire. She desperately searches for something – anything to quell her need. Soon her eyes land on a particularly thick and long devotional candle. She decides that this will be the perfect instrument in relieving her pent up sexual frustration. She hurriedly unbuckles the clasps that hold her battle skirts in place, and inserts the candle into her slick, pretty little quim. A long and loud moan escapes her lips, and she glances toward the couple to ensure that she wasn't heard. Luckily, they are quite deeply engaged in their own copulation. So Leliana lays back against the pew, and begins to thrust the devotional candle in and out of her sopping wet quiver. What better way to prove her love for the Maker?

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

"Did you hear that?" Jowan gasps out between tongued kisses from his mistress.

"No, all I hear is your snivelling. Do you wish to be forgiven or not?" Mistress Hannah growls.

Jowan's eyes widen in horror. The last thing he wants is to be denied pleasure from his aged beauty. He bucks his hips upward, pistoning into her quivering cunt, which through the years has taken on a resemblance to roast beef, and everyone who knows Jowan knows he absolutely _loves_ roast beef. His mistress cries out with pleasure as her inner muscles squeeze his love staff, and he knows he's about to paint her insides with his seed. He feels her burgeoning climax, and is all too happy to join her in the heat of ecstasy. She lies atop him for several moments, her leather corset sticking to his sweaty flesh. Finally she peels away from him and shoots him a wicked grin, and he notices she's missing a few teeth. She presses her lips to his, and he happily slides his tongue into her mouth. With one last swat to his bottom she stands and stares down at him.

"Well, I'd have to say that's worth at least a few days of sanctuary. Maybe tomorrow I'll honour you with a velvet rub," Mother/Mistress Hannah cackles.

Jowan isn't sure what a velvet rub is, but it sure sounds good!

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Leliana lies boneless in the pews after having climaxed several times. Her thick candle is slick with her own juices. Unsure of what to do with it, she licks the candle several times in the hopes that no one will notice the difference. Once she's sure that the copulating couple is out of sight, she scurries over to where the rest of the devotional candles are kept and replaces it in its holder. After a moment of contemplation, she decides to light her candle and says a brief prayer that she'll get lucky during their stay in Redcliffe. After all, it seems like everyone else is, so why can't she get a piece of the action?

* * *

_And there you have it, dear reader. Donate your opinion and help our cause! Tune in for the next episode of _Randy Redcliffe_, where Tomas runs into his natural enemy. _


	5. Rumble in Redcliffe

_Ratings still aren't so hot, but we don't care. We're lovely like that. This chapter is from the pen of yours truly, as will all the following be. __**FC**__ and I lost contact right about this point. _

_With that out of the way, welcome to the fifth episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe!_ Pirate and ninja will finally duel. To the death? Watch on and find out._

* * *

**Rumble in Redcliffe**

"_Do what you want 'cause a pirate is free, you are a pirate_!" Zevran Arainai is singing his heart out, thoroughly annoying his remaining comrades in the process: "_Yar har fiddle-de-dee, being a pirate is all right to me_!" Even more than he is a swashbuckling Antivan pirate, the elf is an opportunist. One look at the Grey Wardens, and he simply joined them. (We gave him free will here, so he could totally do that.) As soon as he laid eyes on Alistair, he knew that the tall, brawny Warden would soundly kick his ass if he tried anything. Of the Frances girl, he wasn't so sure. And still isn't, actually. She rather gives him the feeling that she is only tagging along, following the handsome Warden like a puppy.

A smile spreads across the piratey assassin's smug face as he recalls the parting orgy he had organized for his crew of assassins. The moaning, the thrusting. Sopping wet cunnies and smooth, tight arses. Rock-hard cocks for all! The poisoned wine afterwards... Well, _they_ had drunk the wine; he naturally had steered very clear of the stuff. Man, burying all those bodies had been a butt-load of work. His arms begin smarting just at the thought of it. But there is nothing wrong with his mouth, oh no Ser: "_Do what you want 'cause a pirate is free, you are a pirate_!"

Now, if you realize that Zev is simply repeating these two lines over and over again, you can imagine why the others are heavily annoyed. Alistair audibly grits his teeth. "Zev, shut _up_." Instead of giving in to this kind request, the pirate kicks it up a notch and breaks into a jig too. Dog the dog is severely amused by this; his melodious whining joins the annoying pirate song in perfect harmony while he bounces around his singing, jig-dancing friend.

Frances, who as always agrees with the Warden, rolls her eyes and whines: "Yeah, like, totally Zev! You should like, totally STFU!" She is thoroughly ignored as well.

"_Zevran_!" Eyes bloodshot and nearly foaming at the mouth, Alistair screams: "_**I swear to the Maker, if you don't-.**_.."

Without even looking, Sten the silent giant quietly reaches over and squeezes a bundle of nerves in the singing elf's shoulder. Promptly Zev falls silent, crumbling into a disorderly heap of bronzed limbs and leather gear. Dog nudges his still form, waits a little, nudges him again and then turns to Oghren for his treats and petting. Maybe the dwarf will give him some of that fun water again, he hopes. It tasted _good_! He can't for the life of him remember what happened after that though.

"Thank you, Sten." Al lets out a long, relieved sigh.

The Qunari nods solemnly. "You're welcome." If ever he and Lloyd were to go into a stoicism contest, the judges would have a hard time deciding the winner.

Happy for the break, the party continues on, minus Zevran. Only Morrigan briefly stays behind, to poke the unconscious pirate with a stick and make sure that he isn't dead. He obviously isn't, so in true Morrigan-fashion, she pokes him again for good measure and then follows the others.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Poor Zevran awakes alone, not a single one of his companions in sight. Not even Dog, who is usually begging for the stale hardtacks he still has left from his pillages in the Waking Sea, has opted to stay by his side. Scowling fiercely, the pirate dusts off his white silk shirt with the billowing sleeves and laced up neckline, covered with a leather vest. He picks up his tricorne pirate hat, which had fallen off his head when Sten subdued him and places it back. "Arr, ye scurvy land lubbin' bilge rats!" All he was trying to do was liven things up a little. Why can't they appreciate that?

Frances especially bugs him. As we all know, Zev isn't exactly picky when it comes to bed-partners, but not even _he_ would touch the girl with a ten-foot-pole. Which, incidentally, is what he tends to liken his penis to. In any case, not only is Frances Cousland unfeasibly ugly and greasy, she also has the personality of a wet mop. Everything she says is a complaint, her voice sounds whiny and grating and compared to her, Dog smells like a field of honeysuckle in bloom. Yeah, I admit, I was going to say roses, but how corny is _that_? Worst of all, nothing anyone ever does is good enough for Little-Miss-High-And-Mighty-Presumably-Last-Member-Of-A-Slaughtered-Noble-House. Thankfully, he will be free of _her_ a while, at least.

With a sigh Zevran switches his eye patch from his left eye to the right. Not being able to perceive depth is a bitch, but image is everything. He is still fervently praying to Davy Jones that he might one day lose a hand or foot, so that he may install an über-piratey hook or peg leg.

Unbeknownst to our piquant pirate, he is not quite as alone as he thinks he is. Perched on the utmost top of a tree, Tomas the ninja, archnemesis of any pirate, observes his quarry. His beady blue eyes, narrowed to grim-looking little slits, follow his every move. Zevran snaps out of his reverie about having a buxom beauty on his lap, when a shuriken whizzes past his ear and gets stuck in a tree trunk with a dull thud. "Arrrr!" he yells, shaking his fist. "What's the big idea?"

In true ninja-style, Tomas lands before him in a pose so ultimately ninja-esque, it would put Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo and Raphael to utter shame. This time he is even fully decked out like a ninja, in all black with only his eyes showing. Which really serves no purpose, since it's the middle of the day, but whatever. It's all about image. "Pirate..." he growls menacingly. From the scabbard tied to his back, he draws his katana and assumes the position. For _battle_, you bunch of perverts.

Zevran stuffs his eye patch down his pocket, so he can at least see properly and gleefully brings out his cutlass. "Ninja!" Unlike Tomas, he sounds perfectly happy to be face-to-face with his nemesis. True action has been little and far between, because he usually gets dumped at the camp in favour of the giggling Chantry wench. At least, that's what he thinks; whenever Leliana is away, she is on her own, doing her own things. If he knew what she's doing right now, why, his approval rating of her would drastically rise.

"_**Ninja VS. Pirate**_!" a disembodied voice booms. "_**FIGHT**_!"

The two look around in absolute bewilderment for a few moments before shrugging and crossing swords. The swordfight that follows is absolutely awesome, so awesome I fear I will ruin it by attempting to describe it. Trust me though: *~OHSOAWESOMESAUCE~*. But wait, what have we here? Even though he is duelling his natural enemy, Tomas can't help but notice how handsome this particular pirate is. He's not at all like the grimy, stubble-faced men in the picture books. Amber eyes, luscious lips, the sexiest pointy ears... Our number one ninja has always been a sucker for elves. _Female_ elves. He has no idea at all why his boner is pitching a tent in his loose black pants. The elven pirate's masculine beauty is so overwhelming, that unfortunate Tomas is soon disarmed and on his back in the dust. With Zev straddled atop him to keep him down. Arms crossed before his wiry chest, the pirate smirks down triumphantly on the ninja.

"_**Pirate WINS**_!" the same disembodied voice clamours. Its tone is oozing with a sense of victory.

"Yarr, matey, d'ye have any idea where that be comin' from?" Zevran asks.

Tomas shakes his head. "No, but you have bested me." Under his concealing mask, his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows thickly. "What will you do with me?" he whispers, not a hint of fear in his voice. Instead he sounds hoarse with longing. Despite spreading the word and repeatedly telling himself that he is a ladies' man _pur sang_, he wants nothing more than to be skewered on the end of this pirate's cutlass. And by cutlass, he really means cock. "Are you going to take my life?"

The assassin/pirate quirks a curious eyebrow at this curious behaviour. Understanding slowly begins dawning on him, especially when he unwittingly slides back and his toned tush ends up sitting on something particularly rigid. "Oh no, me hearty," Zev chuckles mischievously. "I'll not be keelhaulin' ye yet." Forthwith he rips off his victim's mask. The face he reveals is, well, it's not extremely handsome. Nor is it extremely ugly. It's just plain old vanilla flavour mediocre, but for everybody's favourite non-player elf in the Grey Warden party, that is good enough. "Mayhap ye and I could set aside our differences, aye?" he murmurs, gently brushing a few stray wisps of hair from his subdued enemy's face.

"I would like that." Suddenly, Tomas feels very shy under the pirate's kind demeanour. "But how?"

"Well, me fine bucko..." Zevran grins bare his perfectly even white teeth. "Let's first start by findin' ourselves a private place to... _talk_, hmm?" His tone of voice holds great suggestive promise, making the ninja's noodle even harder. Incidentally, the term noodle isn't indicative of size or thickness. And then there's the not-so-subtle wriggle of a dashing derriere into a certain individual's crotch. Also promising, and also noodle-fortifying.

Tomas passes a resistance check, enabling him to suppress a particularly loud groan. "I, er, I live nearby," he manages to croak. Didn't pass the check to keep your voice normal, did you? Some ninja you are. "I could take you there." _Or you could take _me_ there_, he thinks. Wildly he shakes his head. _For Amaterasu's sake, what am I _thinking_? _

Reluctantly Zevran rises. "Very well, lad, show us the way."

The ninja promptly leaps up, pulls a smoke bomb from his sash and tosses it on the ground, enveloping the both of them in a thick veil of smoke. He scoops the shorter, lighter elf up into his arms and flies away. Don't look at me funny, it's a ninja thing. As soon as he's done coughing his lungs out, Zevran sputters: "Avast, matey! What's yer..." Then he notices that they are suspended about ten feet up in the air. "What the fu-...! I mean, shiver me timber! Are we... Can ye _fly_?"

"Obviously," Tomas answers dryly. "Not all tales about ninja having supernatural powers are completely thatched together from horseshit."

Silently they fly for a few moments, upwards instead of forward, until they reach their destination. Cleverly concealed between the branches and leaves of a tall, lush, ancient tree, is the small wooden house that Tomas occupies. You see, ever since he was a wee ninja-in-training, he had wanted a tree house. When he passed his gruelling initiation test (like a Harrowing, but with even more death), Tomas decided to live his dream. And has been ever since. The ninja graciously opens his door for his guest and gestures inside. "After you."

Zevran, being a man who enjoys his creature comforts, isn't impressed by the shabby outside of the house. Still he politely removes his hat before walking in. But what of the inside then? Well, much to his dismay, the interior isn't very sexy either. If he knew what that meant, he might call it Spartan. Decorations are non-existent and whatever is in the room, looks strange. The table, for instance, is ridiculously low. "Where... where is the bed?" This is not at all what he had expected.

"我が家へようこそ," Tomas softly whispers into his ear. He has moved close behind his new-found friend, his front pressed intimately to the other's back. His warm breath blows along the exposed curve of a caramel-coloured neck.

The enticing sound of the unknown words sends a shiver down Zev's spine. "What was that, matey?"

"Welcome to my house," the ninja translates in a low, husky voice. His initial shyness has disappeared; all he wants right now is a bit of pirate sausage. Or rather, a lot of it. He has such great plans for his former nemesis. They involve bits of rope lying around, and maybe some honey…

"Yarr, well, thank ye, me dear lad." Once again the assassin/pirate lays bare his pristine ivories with a saucy smile. "Would ye care for a wee bit of grog?" From his well-stocked belt he pulls a flask, uncorks it and allows Tomas to inhale some of alcoholic vapours.

Figuring that a bit of liquid courage can never hurt, our mediocre hero takes a big swig from the flask. His face immediately scrunches up. "Hoo wee, that is some strong stuff!" His head spins, the room doesn't seem to want to stand still, his eyes nearly fall shut… Wait, what? "You… you sneaky pirate bastard, you poisoned me!"

* * *

_Seriously, Monkey Brain Translation Team? Just because Tomas translates it himself later, doesn't mean you can just let this line go without subtitles. I swear, you have only one job… And now you don't. You're fired. _

_Yes, dear reader, it's a cliff-hanger! Is Tomas going to die? Will sex ensue? Is Zevran really a pirate? Can you really do what you want because you are a pirate and pirates are free? Are you actually a pirate? Be honest with yourself and tune in for the next episode… _


	6. Tomas in Turmoil

_Welcome to episode six of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_! What did that naughty Zevran do to poor Tomas? Read on and find out._

* * *

**Tomas in Turmoil**

The first thing Tomas sees when he opens his eyes, is Zev's triumphantly smirking face. The next thing he notices, is that he is stripped to his bare skin and bound tightly with ropes. They haphazardly surround his naked body, he notices to his dismay. He could have done a far better, more aesthetic job with bondage. He has a picture book with instructions lying around here somewhere. Oh well. There is no point in crying over spilled rope, as they say.

"Arr, me wee picaroon is awake, I see." Voice dripping with honey, the pirate runs a finger along the middle of his victim's chest. He whistles in appreciation at what he sees. "Never would have thought ye were hidin' all this under yer black jammies," he croons. An unassuming face the ninja might have, but underneath his clothes, he is _ripped_. Years of torturous training will do that to you. His pecs are perfectly chiselled, his abs any girl's (or gay guy's) wet dream. Muscular arms and legs… Mmm… And wait until you get a load of his booty. "Ye didn't really think I'd let ye have yer way with me, did ye?"

"What have you done to me?" The ninja's voice is cracked, his throat as dry as Mother Hannah's cunt before she caught sight of our lovely Jowan. His head feels like it's being split in two. "What was in that damned grog of yours?"

The elf smiles sweetly, randomly letting his elegant fingers caress rippling muscle. "Just a sleepin' potion, me hearty." His soft lips press an almost tender kiss just above Tomas' navel. "I'm here to make sure that ye ninja-types don't have free run o' the place."

"And now that I'm tied up, I don't," the ninja returns, his anger rising. "So what now?" The table is cold under his back, goose bumps are forming on his exposed skin. A cup of piping hot green tea would be nice right now. "What are you going to do, torture me?" He is quite grateful that his manly bits are still covered by his loincloth, but it hardly does anything to abate his anger.

"Torture ye?" Zev raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Don't be silly, lad. Many would give their right hand just to experience what ye will." For a few moments he disappears from Tomas' sight. The ensuing noises, of weapons being removed and buckles undone, make the bound man tense with anticipation. When the elf returns, Tomas is disappointed to see that save the belt that was strapped across the pirate's upper body to hold various daggers, poisons, potions, his sword and Maker-knows-what-else, nothing has disappeared. But then his eyes travel lower, and gulp, it looks like a crucial part of the man's anatomy is enticingly sticking out.

"Now then..." Grinning wickedly, Zevran grabs a hold of the cords tied around his new friend's chest and yanks him into a sitting position. With the slight height of the table, that means his extra large sausage is pretty much dangling in Tomas' face. "Let's start with a little head, shall we? Though..." The elf's handsome face briefly scrunches into an expression of mirth. "Methinks ye'll be givin' me more than just a _little_ head, matey," he snickers.

Tomas pulls his head back as far as he can manage. "What?" He looks helplessly puzzled.

"'T ain't nothin', bucko, nothin' at all." Nostrils flaring with restrained laughter, Zev pats him on his giant head. "Now open wide."

"I, I ah..." Tomas licks his lips as he stares at the organ that's almost poking his eye out. "I really ca-..."

This is the moment our sea robber has been waiting for: without further ado, he shoves his erection into the ninja's mouth. "No bitin'," he growls ominously, "or I'll knock out all yer land lubbin' teeth."

"Hmmph!" And so the mischievous young man has a mouthful of cock. The taste is something he has never experienced before and neither is the feeling of having a large, throbbing, rigid piece of living flesh in his mouth. Since he loves his teeth very much, he decides to just go along with all this. What is he going to do, break the ropes by puffing out his enormous chest like some carnival strongman? That shit only works in the movies. In any case, he carefully applies some pressure to Zev's cock, eliciting an approving moan from his full lips. The sound brings a warm feeling into his belly, as if he's done something very nice for someone. He... he can't actually _like_ this, can he? But as he wraps his tongue around the pulsating rod in his mouth and evokes another one of those beautiful moans, he finds that he bloody _loves_ it. Enthusiastically bobbing his head up and down, Tomas devours the entire thing.

The pretty elf feels like he's won the jackpot. He tangles his fingers into his partner's brown locks and enjoys the feelings of pleasure the man causes in him. His inexperience is obvious, but the eagerness and love he puts into this oral stimulation more than make up for it. In his enthusiasm, Zev forgets himself and begins fucking the ninja's mouth. Deeply. Where most people would gag or throw up, Tomas does not. Because Tomas has no gag reflex. Lucky pirate. The idea turns said pirate on so badly, he immediately shoots his wad down his now willing victim's mouth. Because his diet contains plenty of pineapple (a great source of vitamin C, so no danger of scurvy there), the gooey liquid is actually quite delicious. The ninja swallows all and he savours every single drop of it.

While our perky pirate tries to lose the rubbery feeling in his legs, for once thankful he doesn't have a peg leg, he feels something soft bumping into him. He looks down and sees a cat. But not just any kind of cat. The fuzzy creature meows up at him, one green eye obscured by an eye patch. His heart is immediately stolen. "Arrr, who be ye, me wee kitten?" Another plaintive meow. The brown and white coloured cat stumbles around him, for it has a cast on one of its hind legs. It hobbles like a true buccaneer. For a brief moment, Zev is envious. This cat looks more like a pirate than he does! Sweet little meows and nuzzling of his expensive leather boots make this nasty emotion vanish into thin air and the pirate bends down to pet his feline counterpart.

"That's my cat, Oscar," Tomas says awkwardly. Upon hearing his name, Oscar promptly jumps into his master's lap. Purring happily, he digs his sharp little claws into the ninja's muscular thighs to make a comfortable spot for himself. Tomas doesn't even flinch; his raging boner is distracting his attention anyway. "Go on, Oz, I'm a little busy right now."

With an insulted mew, the kitty pirate jumps from his lap and hobbles away, tail arrogantly stuck up into the air. The elven pirate watches the cat stumble off with unveiled glee. He never thought he would see another pointy-eared pirate that wasn't an elf. "So, where were we, lad?" He winks at Tomas, who instantly turns red again.

"Well, I, uhm, I don't know what you want to do," the ninja mumbles. He nervously fidgets around; as well as he can anyway, being tied up and all. As loathe as he is to admit, Tomas wouldn't mind having the other man's cock in his mouth again.

"Arrr, tell me somethin', me wee ninja." Zev folds his arms before his chest, smirking down on his newest friend/foe/little bitch. "Did ye enjoy havin' me mast in yer mouth?" He watches said wee ninja avert his eyes and mutter something intelligible, shamefaced like a schoolgirl who's just seen her first stiff pecker. "What was that, lad? Do speak up." Again Tomas can't string words together into a proper sentence. "I can't hear ye..."

"**I FUCKING LOVED IT, OKAY**?" he blurts out. "I've never done anything so hot in my life!" His face is so red it looks like a giant bell pepper.

Another grin, now more genuinely pleased than smug, spreads across Zevran's face. "Arrr, well, y'ain't seen nothin' yet, matey." He pulls out the small dagger that he keeps strapped to his beautifully toned thigh. "Promise not to run?"

"I promise," the ninja says solemnly. He can't wait to see what else his pirate buddy has up his sleeve.

Without a word, the arousing Antivan cuts the ropes that bind Tomas' arms and legs. Those around his torso he keeps intact, to keep a handle on things. "Arrrrrrr ye ready for more, me hearty?"

The ninja nods, barely able to suppress his laughter. The pirate speak is getting sillier by the sentence. He gasps when the elf coaxes him onto hands and knees, his loincloth being roughly ripped from his ass. "I… Ooh… What-what are you going to do now?" A girl-like squeal sounds in the tree house as soon as he feels something warm, wet and soft touch his stage door. Artists enter through the rear, you see.

"You taste divine, _tesoro_," Zevran purrs. His pirate accent has vanished into thin air. "What?" he asks, shrugging at his playmate's mystified expression. "I do not give a fig that it's Talk Like a Pirate Day today; I am getting sick of sounding like Long John Silverite." His soft lips press a whole heap of kisses on the ninja's exposed backside. "Do not worry yourself, my friend. I will still show you a good time."

Tomas finds he likes the smooth Antivan accent much better. "So - _ah_ - what's your name?" Every word comes out in a moan. "Aren't you a real pirate?"

Zev looks reluctant to answer, busy as he is with something he very much enjoys doing, but does so regardless: "My name is Zevran Arainai; I have been called a butt pirate on more than one occasion, yes, but I choose not to speak as one. What are you called then?"

"I… I'm Tomas, no family name." He moans particularly loudly as a tanned hand closes around his hard cock, the experienced tongue still pampering his bunghole. The pressure in his gut rises, he's almost there... And then suddenly it all stops. "Nooo, what are you doing?" The other man's intent dawns on him the moment he feels something large prodding his arse. "_Oh_."

"There is no need to be afraid, my friend." Already lubed up and ready to go, Zevran rubs the tip of his prick against the inviting opening. "I will be careful." He has to be, if he wants any chance of a repeat performance. Slowly he inches in, revelling in the feeling of stretching and filling a very tight virgin hole. "Mmm, that's a nice arse you got there."

As this is cheesy porn, the ninja feels nothing but pure pleasure as he takes his first cock. It's the best thing he has ever felt in his life; it has replaced the time he made love to a warm apple pie, pushing it down to 100th place. "Amaterasu's _ass_, this feels good," he pants. "Fuck me, fuck me, _please_!"

"Er, of course." Mister Pirate is surprised his bitch isn't crying his eyes out, but he certainly isn't complaining about this fine turn of events. Warily, because the tears might come any second, he gives a tentative thrust. "How is this?"

"Awful!" Tomas is whining without even realizing it. "Give it to me hard and fast," he begs desperately. "Please!"

The puppyish eagerness displayed by the bobble-headed ninja makes our sassy elf painfully hard; he grows bigger than he has ever been, giving that no longer virgin hole an even better stretch. Taking things slow and easy is now, naturally, out of the question. Zevran begins pumping his well-trained hips back and forth as if it is his last day on this earth, putting insane amounts of force behind his thrusts. Moans, grunts, sighs and squeals fill the tiny tree house as the two behave like the animals they are. Somehow the ninja manages to balance himself on one hand, gripping his aching rod with the other. Closer and closer they approach their climax; the scene slows to a crawl as the chorus of _Come Together_ by the Beatles starts playing. The frame freezes as the men come together, mouths opened wide in their shared pleasure and fountains of pearlescent cum erupting from them. Zev has pulled out for this money-shot. Climactic moans mingle and echo.

The screen fades out, returning to the reconciled archenemies. They are lying in one another's arms on the low table. "I had no idea," Tomas mutters under his breath.

"What about?" Zevran is toying with the hipflask that contains an actual beverage. Raspberry lemonade, to be precise; the elf is a lightweight when it comes to strong drink. Some pirate he makes.

"That sex with a man could be this awesome." The ninja looks at the pirate all starry-eyed. "Or maybe it's just you."

The piquant pirate raises an eyebrow, an uncomfortable feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. As we all know, he has a distinct phobia of commitment. "Well, thank you very much for your hospitality, but I had best be moving on now." Our bodacious buccaneer is dressed and ready to leave in the blink of an eye. "Goodbye then." Cheerfully waving to Tomas, whose pleasure-befuddled brain doesn't quite grasp the situation, Zevran walks out of the door. Sadly, he has forgotten where exactly he is.

"Zevran, _no_!" yells the ninja, now shocked into consciousness. Alas, it is too late. A blood-curdling scream passes from between a pair of full lips as their owner topples out of the tree house.

* * *

_Yes, dear viewers, another cliff-hanger! How mean we are to you today. Will Zevran live? What of the ninja's budding affections for the pirate? Will we see an end to a centuries-long feud? Tune in for the next episode of _Randy Redcliffe_. _

_Oscar is __**FC's**__ cat, in case you're wondering. He'd broken one of his legs in 2010 and needed a cast.  
_


	7. Lusty Leliana

_**Fluid Consciousness**__ and I reconnected a while back; she dropped the idea for this chapter, but was quite vague about it. I did the best I could. She's gone again, so I can't ask WTF she actually wanted. My story now! All mine! Muahahaha… Gird your loins, readers. _

_That being said, welcome to the seventh episode of _Randy Redcliffe_! We finally get to find out what happens to Zevran._

* * *

**Lusty Leliana**

"O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your Glory and let the world once more see Your favour…" _Adagio for Organ and Strings_ plays as a heart-breaking accompaniment. Dummm, du-du-dum, dummm, du-du-dum, du-du-dum…

Tomas perches high above Redcliffe to quietly survey the funeral, a single manly tear gliding down his cheek. If only he had been quicker, if only he could have saved poor Zevran. Drained of mana after all that delicious sexual activity, he couldn't even fly to the pirate's rescue. The ninja watched, frozen with horror, as his new friend tumbled all the way down and landed on the ground with a sickening splat. His limbs were twisted in strange angles, a pool of blood spreading underneath his body. Nasty. At least it had been quick.

What of Zevran then? Except for the fact that he's beastly dead, of course. On the way down, his life flashed before his eyes: his time in the whorehouse with the other orphans, his exploits as a Crow, his adventures as a pirate, his many amorous conquests. His last memory, however, was one that filled his being with disgust and rage. One night, not too long ago, Alistair and he were guarding the camp. That filthy bastard had brought out a book so horrible, so disgusting it made his tanned toes curl. The title _Two Girls, One Cup_ was stamped on the cover in crude, brown letters. The images of the two women playing around with shit was utterly disturbing and yet Zevran had been wholly unable to tear his gaze from the pages. The Warden was giggling with malicious glee at the poor elf's distress. Every time Zevran took a bite of food, the images popped back in his head and the food popped back out. The last thing Zev saw before he hit the ground was an image brought on by his thirst for revenge: his hands tightly wrapped around the Warden's throat, the man's handsome face red as a beetroot and his eyes bulging.

Meanwhile, the only ones in attendance at the funeral itself are the Grey Warden party, the organist, the violinist and the cellist, all playing their hearts out, and the priest, throwing out verse after verse. Frances clutches a dirty hanky to her face, her eyes rimmed red. "Like, I can so totally not believe he is dead." Here one moment, gone the next. How fleeting life is… And what the fuck had he been doing in that tree? The companions have all asked themselves and each other this question, but so far there has been no satisfying answer. They all have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with piratey fuckery. Frances sniffles, her sleep-caked eyes following the casket's slow descent. Zev had such low standards; who will condescend to take her virginity now that he is gone?

Dog the dog howls in grief. Where is he going to get those delicious biscuits now? Who will liven up the day with song and dance? Dog hangs his head. This is a terrible, terrible day. Alistair absently scratches his mabari between the ears. He is feeling so utterly guilty for snapping at Zevran like that. Not that he could have known that the elf would die, but still. Guilt doesn't have to be rational. He feels even guiltier for showing his pirate comrade that filthy book. "I'm sorry, my friend," the Warden murmurs under his breath. "So sorry." He has no idea how sorry he is going to be.

Sten absently listens to the priest's sermon and wonders whether there will be coffee and cake after the service. The giant has a hankering for something sweet. For once he doesn't complain about Morrigan amorously hanging off his arm, pressing her half-bare breasts against the limb to attract his attention. A frown appears on her comely forehead at his complete ignoring of her. The witch harrumphs haughtily. She will get him yet.

Oghren teeters about, taking the occasional swig from his flask. He fucking hates funerals. Branka never even got one. The dwarf blinks hard to fight back the tears and succeeds. He's become good at that lately. And now the elf is dead too. He was pretty funny, with the singing and the dancing. There was none of the usual elven/dwarven rivalry going on between them. Just lewd jokes and lots of pranking. Oghren chuckles at the memory of that time he'd hidden all of Zev's clothes; the elf was forced to look for them butt-ass-naked and made Frances faint from the indecency of it all. Then there was the time they had spiked Sten's stew with a great amount of booze and the giant had staggered around the camp naked, singing Qunari songs and throwing around cookies like some demented Santa Claus. Frances had fainted again. Oghren chuckles and pours some of his drink on the casket in honour of his elven friend.

Leliana looks down on the grave with a sad sigh, clutching a single pink rose to her chest, its velvety petals moist with dew. Poor Zevran… She and he could have made such beautiful music. And just when she was about to proposition him too. Some devotional candle is all well and good, but she needs a _real_ man. Whatever the impression Zevran made on her when they first met, our bard has gradually come to like him. And now this. Her cunny burning with longing and loss, Leliana tosses the rose onto the coffin and heads for her tent. She must do something about the desire that plagues her.

Theron, still angry about the treatment he has been given, watches the funeral from a distance. There is a pensive look in his emerald eyes. So, his fellow elf has bitten the big one. Strange. Zevran was a survivor, the toughest, sneakiest bastard the Dalish elf has ever met. The question isn't what he was doing in that tree; how did he manage to get all the way up there? Zev was a city elf. How many trees does one get to climb in Antiva City? None, Theron guesses. The Crows and the pirate life probably don't require a lot of tree climbing either. With his keen eyes, the Dalish elf has already noticed the figure all dressed in black quietly watching the proceedings. His vision so sharp, he can even see the tears glistening in those grim blue eyes. Interesting. Theron makes a mental note to search the tree for clues and to question the mysterious stranger.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

That evening, when all is quiet as the grave, the grave itself is not quite as quiet. Lady Vasilia, vengeful spirit extraordinaire, has become sick and tired of waiting for hapless adventurers to search for the Ashes of Andraste. Three hundred years and not a soul! Ugh. It's enough to drive any (dead) body up the wall. Thoroughly ignoring the cries of her fellow spirits, Vasilia leaves the ancient temple and goes in search of adventure. When she ventures near Redcliffe, something tugs at her. Something strong and familiar, something very close to the black pit she used to call a heart. Her ghostly lips curl into a wicked smile as she locates the source of the pull.

A beautiful elf is lying in his grave; his body is dead, but his soul cannot let go. The desire for revenge is strong within him. Lady Vasilia searches his memories and sees an unspeakable fragment, concerning two women and bodily waste. Though having been dead for centuries, the vengeful spirit gags in disgust. The name "Alistair" flashes in the dead elf's memories, flickering with anger. Perfect. Vasilia possesses the body and mends the damage that has been done to it. Good as new.

Zevran's new lease on life has begun. Courtesy of his strong will, Lady Vasilia is instantly demoted to playing second fiddle. Oh, well… It will surely beat standing in a row and listening to Maferath's eternal bitching about that blasted Andraste. _Wah, wah, why can't I be just as loved? I'm awesome too! Waaah…_ The elf's first act as a man reborn, thirsting for vengeance, is to punch straight through the wood of the coffin and the earth above it. His fist dramatically thrusts into the air before his headstone. Moments later, Zevran emerges from his grave. For a moment he is confused.

Mingled thoughts in various voices tumble through his mind; none of them are his. The elf shakes his head and concentrates. Slowly but surely, he becomes able to pick out individual thoughts. The natives of Redcliffe think and do some bizarre things. Zevran chuckles at their perverted musings. His former companions are not quite as perverted: Alistair dreams of cheese, Sten of cookies, Morrigan of Sten, Oghren of his dead wife as she once was, and Frances of looking like Morrigan. Dog dreams of running through a field full of honeysuckle and biscuits. Theron misses the lush forests he once called home. Zevran even picks up on Thomas' sadness, bittersweet as the ninja contemplates the short time spent with his pirate. Ah, yes... Such a wonderful time it was. Perhaps even worth repeating.

Armed with his new powers of telepathy, our undead pirate decides then and there to make optimal use of them. His eyes glow red in the gloaming; his lips form a mildly maniacal grin. It's payback time. His nostrils flare. But not just yet. Vasilia had expected her host to immediately visit this Alistair character he seems to hate so much, but she doesn't really know our Zev all that well. Dead or not, the man can sniff out ladies in need of a tumble like a pig can sniff out truffles in need of being shaved over a luxurious pasta dish. His sharpened senses bring him to Leliana's tent, where he presses an ear against the canvas for a listen. The sounds he picks up bring a lascivious smile to his handsome face.

Poor Leliana. She has been going at it for hours, fucking herself with a broom handle and fondling her quivering clit until she comes again and again. And yet she is not satisfied. Not in the least. Her fingers are wrinkled from having been coated in her juices for so long, the tips going numb. The bard whimpers in frustration. Why can't she get some action? From a man, or a woman, _anybody_. Even Dog is becoming more and more attractive to her.

Zevran grins to himself. Oh, she certainly will not have to stoop to having the mabari mount her... Just as he thinks of stepping inside, the flap of Leliana's tent slides back as if pulled by an unseen hand. The elf raises his eyebrows. Well, that is handy. What else does his reanimation come with? He considers adding some special effects and lo! Mist begins curling around his feet and drifting into the tent. Some dramatic music, perhaps? Check! An invisible cello plays a slow, haunting melody. All set. Zevran slips into the tent, where a startled Leliana stares at him in confusion. Her hand is frozen mid-thrust around her broomstick. "Please, _tesoro_," purrs the undead elf. "Do not stop on my account."

"Yes, master," she replies mechanically, the confusion in her baby blues replaced with hypnotized vacancy. Her hand continues pumping the handle in her sopping quiver, but the show is truly on when Zevran mentally commands the Orlesian beauty into a state of wanton, slutty need. Leliana promptly gets on her knees, ass in the air, and moans: "Please, master, my other hole feels so empty…" Her eyes are now filled with lust as she cranes her neck to look at her master. "Please, _please_ fill it for me?"

Even though he has no heartbeat and his blood thus cannot be pumped anywhere, Zevran immediately springs a raging hard-on. Seems weird if you think about it, doesn't it? Undead creatures having sex and causing pregnancies? Anyway, since our elven hero is about as considerate a lover as they come, he fights the urge to shove his ten-foot-pole up her backdoor of love and instead applies his tongue to her pretty pink pucker. Leliana squeals with delight at the soft, wet sensation on the sensitive nerves; she begins fucking herself even harder and faster. "Ah, _cara mia_," Zevran murmurs, briefly dipping his tongue into the bard's dripping slit. "How delicious you taste..."

"You are too kind, master." Leliana impatiently wriggles her little bottom like a bitch in heat. "Please, master, don't make me wait too long!"

Ever the sucker for dirty talk, the piquant pirate replaces his tongue with his cock. The bard's adorable little asshole stretches like a rubber band to receive him, then snaps tightly shut around the base of his one-eyed trouser snake like one. How silly of him; it had completely slipped Zev's mind that the Orlesians may be ladies in the streets, but freaks in the bed. Her anal canal immediately breaks into massaging motions. "My delightful little slut," groans the elf, giving said slut's toned butt a hard smack.

Leliana yelps happily. "Oh, yes, master, I am your slut!" She bucks back her hips in reckless abandon, burying both Zev's cream stick and the cream-covered broom handle painfully deep in her juicy holes. The pain only fuels her passion. "Please, master, fuck me until I can no longer walk!" she shrieks. And so he does. With alarming speed and force Zevran fucks his hypnotized whore, until they are both screaming in unadulterated erotic joy. What luck that everybody else is so caught up in their dreams that not even the archdemon itself landing in their camp could have woken them.

Enjoying himself silly, good old Zev decides that Leliana should enjoy herself at least as much. He reaches around a beautifully rounded hip to stroke a twitching little love bud, until its owner howls with an orgasm powerful enough to rock the foundations of the earth itself. The wild undulations of her tight tunnel are enough to send the undead Antivan over the edge too; he shoots thick wads of dead swimmers up Leliana's fabulous fanny. He is absolutely knackered. "Thank you, _tesoro_." Most affectionately he pats her backside, then lays the girl down on her bedroll. "You are an amazing lay."

"Thank you, master," the bard says sweetly. Zevran commands her to feel sleepy; she obediently falls asleep when he snaps his fingers. For a moment he fondly looks at her slumbering face, her long eyelashes fluttering against her rosy cheeks. His nostrils flare again. The scent of fresh blood and an overwhelming need to drink it assail his senses. He can see the blood pounding in her veins. Now for an inconspicuous spot… The undead elf bends down to where her pulse runs on her inner thigh. His canines grow long and sharp. He doesn't want to, but he needs to feed. Zev sinks his fangs in Leliana's yielding flesh and sips enough of that heady red elixir to quench his thirst. _The blood is the liiiiiife!_ So true, Renfield, so true. The tiny wounds scab over as soon as Zevran withdraws. He covers Leliana's peacefully snoozing form with her blanket.

_Time to return to your grave_, Lady Vasilia kindly informs her host as she senses the coming of dawn.

Our piquant pirate crosses his arms before his chest and scowls at the foreign presence in his head. Haughtily he says aloud: "I shall do no such thing! There is still so much to do."

_You're a vampire now._ The vengeful spirit sighs at having to explain something so cheesy and easily deducted. _That means you need to feed on blood and daylight will kill you. Now go, quickly. _

Zevran decides to trust the woman in his mental passenger seat. Why would she lie? His body is just as much a vessel to her as it is to him, even though she cannot control it. He likes to think it's a nice place to live. He flexes his muscles and is rewarded with a delighted gasp from Vasilia. The elf returns to his grave to happily nestle in his coffin. He drifts off into a death-like sleep, the last thing on his mind gratitude at how his companions have chosen to have cushions installed on the otherwise uncomfortably hard wood. The elf's passenger, meanwhile, is bouncing through his skull. A typical revenge gig this is not. Her ectoplasmic limbs are quivering with excitement. This is going to be so much more interesting than she had initially thought. Vasilia can't _wait_ to see what tomorrow night will bring.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Leliana wakes the next morning to birds singing, refreshed and no longer horny as an old goat. She stretches her weary limbs. A smile plays on her lips. She doesn't remember the supposed dream she had the night before, only that it had been beautiful. The poor bard winces when she notices the burn in her brown eye. A frown mars her sweet features. _Damn that Alistair and his confounded cooking_, she thinks. _Those foul stews of his shall be the death of me yet._

* * *

_And there you have it, dear reader. Where will Zev's lust for revenge and sex take him next? Tune in for the next episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_. Sponsored by tits 'n beer. What? Oh. Sponsored by roses and romance! And hot guys with their tops off. _


	8. Animal Antics

_Yes, yes, yes! Episode eight of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_ is upon us again. Even though posting a comment must be an incredible strain, please do consider it. More feedback means better stories! Usually. What madness will our stars get up to this time? Who _are_ our stars, for that matter?_

* * *

**Animal Antics**

All the way up in his treehouse, where nobody can hear him save his cat, Tomas the ninja is finally giving himself over to his grief. Tears stream down his face as he mourns Zevran. Even though their time together had been so short, the Oriental assassin now realizes that he truly, genuinely has fallen for the elf. What will he do now? How can his life be worth living? Shouldn't he just hurl himself from his treehouse and join his beloved pirate in death? Oscar, carefree as only a cat can be, is purring around him, rubbing his fuzzy body against his master's legs. The feline is in genuine need of some proper pettings. "Will you please leave me alone?" sobs Tomas. "Can't you see that I'm grieving?"

Unfamiliar with the concept of grief, Oscar mews haughtily and turns his back on his master. Spurn him, will he? The nerve! Now that he is free of his cast and his eye infection has healed, the cat has full freedom of movement once more. Being confined to the treehouse has bored the beast to no end. The villagers of Redcliffe get into the craziest situations and he has seen a great many of them. Much better than staring at the ceiling! It's time for more entertainment.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Dog the dog is sitting underneath the tallest tree in Redcliffe, peering up into the foliage. There is something interesting about this tree, but he can't quite put his paw on it. What is up there? He can still smell Zevran's blood where it has seeped into the soil. It makes him so sad. The pirate was tons of fun. His Grey Warden master is a nice guy, but fun isn't something Dog would associate with him. But wait, what is this? It's a cat! "Hello!" says Dog, wagging his tail. He bloody loves cats! They're just so cute; sadly, most run away as soon as they see him.

"Oh, hey," replies the cat, wary of this newcomer. He seems nice enough, contrary to most dogs he has some across. Those just wanted to tear off his cute little head. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dog, nice to meet you." He gives the cat a little sniff. Yep, definitely a cat: it smells distinctly of spit and self-importance. Nothing wrong with a strong sense of confidence, thinks Dog. Heck, they could all do with some of that. "What's your name?"

Oscar chuckles. "Oscar. Is your name really Dog?" He shakes his head at his companion's nod. "Your master suuucks."

"He's okay, just not very imaginative." Dog shrugs. "I'm bored. Want to go do something?"

"Sure. I was just about to spy on the people of Redcliffe." Oscar is already mentally giggling at the things he might see today. "Care to join me?"

Not convinced of the amusement potential of this activity, Dog decides to join Oscar anyway. "Beats just sitting here, I guess."

Oscar shoots his new friend curious looks as they wander Redcliffe. "I'm no expert, but aren't we supposed to hate each other?"

"Bullshit propaganda," replies Dog with a derisive snort. "Don't believe the hype, Oscar. Whether we get along depends on our personalities, not our species."

"Sounds good." The cat spots a trim human figure, dressed in a tan trench coat. He signals to his canine companion. "Watch this guy. This is going to be hilarious."

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Bann Teagan has managed to memorize more dirty limericks and he is not afraid to use them. He is very cheerful today as he shrugs into his coat and ties the waistband. More people have arrived and so there are more people to show his bits to. It's perfect! His condition need not be a handicap. Since the last time we saw him, the man has made peace with his compulsion. It doesn't seem to harm the people of Redcliffe at all, so why should he always feel so guilty? Disguised by his trusty hat, he strides from Castle Redcliffe and is for a change not followed by Arlessa Isolde's languishing eyes. What a wild session of deep dicking with a zombie can't accomplish, eh?

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Our compulsive nobleman spots the mayor, just standing in the village square and doing fuck-all. Business as usual. His first victim of the day! Teagan unties his waistband and jumps in front of Murdock, dramatically reciting: "A pirate, history relates…"

"Not you again!" Poor Murdock is feeling woefully inadequate at the sight of that huge cock twitching between the mysterious flasher's legs. If only the man weren't wearing that hat. He is dying to know who this stranger is and to have him banned from Redcliffe for making him feel like shit.

"Was scuffling with some of his mates," the Bann undauntedly carries on. "When a fall on his cutlass…"

The mayor can't help but stare at that impressive instrument, as large as a toddler's arm. "Who _are_ you?"

Teagan ignores the question. "Which rendered him nutless and perfectly useless on dates!" And _woosh_! He is off again, leaving Murdock bewildered and intimidated in his wake. The fevered flasher doesn't even notice the cat and dog who are stealthily following him like shadows.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Frances Cousland is minding her own business, moping about her shitty life, when she is suddenly startled by a well-formed stranger in a snazzy hat. That is almost all he is wearing. The greasy noblewoman lets out a little squeal as she catches sight of the stranger's massive trouser trout, sprouting forth from a meticulously groomed bush. Frozen with fear, she listens to what the man is declaiming: "There once was a lass named Louise, whose cunt smelled of mouldy old cheese…" Frances gags at the image. _Like, eww, gross! _Not that she smells any better, but she has gone without proper hygiene for so long, she doesn't even notice her own stink anymore. "She leaked so much grunge," continues the flasher, "she purchased a sponge, that sopped up the muck to her knees!" This time, the sight of that winking cock and the imagery of the limerick make poor Frances throw up in her mouth a little. Her head begins to spin. The last thing she sees before everything goes black before her eyes is how the stranger closes his coat with a weary sigh, turning his back on her. He doesn't even stay to watch Frances crumple into a grimy heap and hit her head on a rock.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Teagan makes a face. Maker's breath, but that girl stank. If all these newcomers smell like that, he will certainly stay right the fuck away from them and flash his regulars instead. Ah, but here is another one!

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Theron Mahariel is determined to search the tree at whose base they had found Zevran dead and solve the mystery of his fellow elf's end once and for all. He raises his eyebrows as some random guy pops up in front of him, the lapels of his coat conspicuously parted. "What the fuck?" mutters the Dalish elf. This is utterly surreal. There isn't a forest on Thedas where this would happen, but leave it to those _shemlen_ to come up with some outlandish shit like this.

The stranger – who is wearing a nice hat, Theron must admit – clears his throat and says: "There was a young woman named Sally, who loved the occasional dally."

"Are you… rhyming?" asks the elf incredulously. "Fucking weirdo." He flicks back his long black locks in a disdainful gesture.

The flasher seems taken aback by the dry reaction for a moment. "She sat on the lap, of a well-endowed chap…"

"Riiight," drawls Theron sarcastically. "Tell me: is your mother proud of you?" He is not at all impressed by the raging hard-on being exhibited to him; he's seen bigger. In fact, he _has_ bigger.

The mysterious stranger quickly rattles off the final line: "And said: 'You're right up my alley!'" With that, he closes his coat, turns on his heel and walks away.

The Dalish elf watches him go, rolling his eyes. _Humans_. _They should all be boiled into a stew. _It would definitely taste better than one of Alistair's nasty concoctions.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Dog can barely contain his laughter. "Oh, my Dog! What kind of place is this?" he asks his new friend, giggling under his breath. "I've never seen any human behave like that." Witnessing Frances' latest fainting spell had been hilarious. And the limerick he may have chosen subconsciously fit her like a dirty old glove. Sure, she may have hit her head on a rock, but she will be fine. And if not, good riddance. Dog doesn't like her either. She smells even worse to his keen nose.

"Oh, yeah, that is the Arl's younger brother." Oscar licks his paw, baring his sharp little teeth in an amused smile. "He has a problem: if he doesn't do this every day, he has an allergic reaction."

"Wow, that's a very specific compulsion!" Dog snickers, much like Muttley. Anyone remember him? Ah, good times… Yes, yes, shut up. Just let me get nostalgic for a few seconds. Done. "What is he going to do now?" Dog asks, watching their object of observation head into the tavern.

Oscar is surprised. "I don't know; I've never seen him do that." Driven by curiosity, the duo follow in Teagan's footsteps.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Well, that elf hadn't showed him any of the typical reactions. Such sass. Teagan isn't sure whether to laugh or cry that he hasn't impressed the handsome stranger with his impressive anatomy. Oh, well, can't win them all. At least that guy had smelled a lot better than the girl. His icy blue eyes drift off to the tavern atop the hill. The thought of his adventure there is sending even more blood to the befuddled Bann's loins. If he is lucky, maybe Lloyd will be kind enough to fondle his family jewels again. That was truly the wildest, most foundation-rocking orgasm that Bann Teagan has ever experienced.

Our compulsive hero pushes open the door to the tavern. Apart from Lloyd leaning against the counter with a most impassive look on his face, the place is deserted. Or so it seems. If one were to look under one of the tables, one would find Berwick and Bella passed out in a post-orgasmic stupor. They have more than made up for the ruined climax Tomas caused with his mischief. Teagan has other things in mind than looking under tables, however. Just as he is getting ready to open his mouth and begin his recitation, Lloyd greets him: "Good day again, ser. Would you mind stepping behind the counter for me?"

Although this is contrary to his original plans, the nobleman shrugs. Now that he has made peace with his condition, it takes much longer for the symptoms to set in. Teagan walks behind the counter and goggles at the sight before him. It would seem that Lloyd has followed his example, because from the waist down he is completely, absolutely and utterly naked. Two large, hairy buns are on display. The Bann's battering ram slaps against his taut belly from sheer excitement. Without a word, Lloyd hands him a bottle of virgin olive oil and bends his torso lower, revealing a brown ring haloed with hair. The sight is making Teagan's mouth water as he oils up his rod and the bartender's waiting bum hole. He is about to get even luckier than he could ever have imagined. Lloyd, meanwhile, betrays no feeling whatsoever: "Is there anything I can get you, ser?" Stoic as always.

"The lass I brought home was a prize," mutters the Bann, placing the tip of his instrument against the inviting opening. A delighted moan rolls from his lips; a pleasurable shudder travels through his frame. The next line comes out interspersed with happy groans: "With an alluring set of blue eyes..." Ever so slowly Teagan breaches the tight defences of Lloyd's anal cavity. There is no doubt in our hero's mind that this is hurting the poor bartender, but Lloyd wouldn't be Lloyd if he showed it.

Instead, the portly bartender just does his job: "Are you sure there is nothing I can get you?" His sphincter abruptly contracts, eliciting a surprised groan. "We have ale, wine, mixed nuts…"

"Her breasts, so well kept," Teagan goes on, "were what I'd expect." Finally, his pelvis hits Lloyd's beefy backside. It's so tight in there. Tight, hot and moist. Delicious. The manipulation of his balls, which had brought him such immense pleasure then, comes out unfavourably in comparison. Since the portly bartender doesn't seem to care anyway, the Bann takes the man's hips in a firm hold and begins fucking him properly. But not before uttering the final line: "But her penis was quite a surprise!" Teagan fucks Lloyd like he's never fucked anyone before, harder than he has ever fucked in his life. Between laboured grunts, he spouts limerick after limerick and deals the occasional hard smack to a pudgy buttock. His arsenal is all but depleted when he delivers his final line and final thrust, treating his partner to a rich load of his sweet cream filling. The Bann pulls out and watches his cum dribble out of Lloyd's distended hole.

Much to Teagan's surprise, Lloyd catches the precious liquid in a shot glass. The bartender fills another with a shot of strong brandy, which he passes to his partner: "Have this on the house." The two men clink their glasses together, Teagan with a fond smile and Lloyd with no expression whatsoever.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Dog laughs. "Whoa! I never thought all this could be possible in a sleepy little town like this." His tail is losing its mind with joy. "Thank you for showing me all this." In a reflex, he gives Oscar a big lick across the nose.

Rather than be all scandalized at having dog drool on his face, feelings of great affection overwhelm the cat. "I… Dude, I think I really like you!" He is surprised, having always heard he should hate dogs.

"I like you too!" Dog gasps. "BFFs?" Dog's always liked cats, but this is the coolest cat he's ever met.

Oscar grins. "Forever, forever, for ever, ever?" he sings.

Dog snickers, paw in front of his mouth. "I love references!" He looks around; all activity in the place seems to have died down. Teagan has even left while they weren't looking. "Well, what now?"

"Hmmm…" The cat smacks his lips. "How about lunch?" Dog agrees and so our unlikely friends go off in search of something to snack on.

* * *

_There you have it, dear reader. Are you surprised? I bet you were surprised. Remember that Zevran only comes out to play at night. How will Oscar and Dog get on? Maybe you will find out in the next episode, maybe you will not. Tune in next week for more _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_! _


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